The Billionaire's Embrace (The Silver Cross Club) by Bec Linder

Author:Bec Linder [Bec Linder]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2014-02-26T05:00:00+00:00

Part Two:

Carter

Chapter 11

The girl leaning against me couldn’t possibly have been twenty-one. Her hair, her makeup, her sparky halter top—she looked about eighteen, an NYU sorority girl on the loose. Somehow she had gotten into the nightclub. Flashed her tits at the door, no doubt.

I hated dance clubs.

And yet there I was, fending off this underage harridan, who was saying something in a hoarse shout necessitated by the thumping music from below. Her nail salon, the Porsche her daddy bought her, who knew—I wasn’t really listening.

Instead, I was scanning the crowded balcony for Carolina. She had brought me here and then abandoned me. I would have left, but she had my wallet. She’d fished it out of my pocket as we walked through the door, and told me I couldn’t have it back until she decided it was acceptable for me to go home.

Knowing Carolina, that wouldn’t happen until the club closed.

The girl shifted closer to me on the leather couch. I tried to edge away without being obvious about it. If I snubbed her too blatantly, she’d sell some fanciful concoction to the tabloids: “FUCKED AND ABANDONED BY CARTER SUTTON! SECRET LOVE CHILD ONLY NINE MONTHS AWAY!”

I shouldn’t have let Carolina talk me into this.

You are too boring, she kept saying. Forget that woman. You are a rich man, Carter! Enjoy your wild youth! All in that over-the-top accent. She grew up in a fairly upscale town in Bergen County and barely spoke any Spanish, but she thought she would find more success if she played up her “exotic” roots. And she’d certainly made a name for herself, so it was difficult for me to criticize her decision, even though she sounded like a poor imitation of Marion Cotillard.

The girl said something about getting another drink. I gave her a tight smile, ignoring her obvious hint. I’d made many poor decisions in my life, but I wasn’t about to add purchasing alcohol for a minor to the list. She gave me an exaggerated pout staggered off toward the bar. Saved by refusing to purchase bottle service.

Alone, I relaxed back against the couch. Eighteen-year-olds weren’t to my taste, but I couldn’t deny that there were plenty of beautiful women in the club that night. I loved women. Everything about them, their soft skin, the way their hair smelled, the hollows of their lower backs. Most men did, unless they were gay; and I was sure that gay men had the same fervent aesthetic appreciation for other men that I did for women. It was part and parcel of having a Y chromosome.

I had probably drunk too much whiskey.

One of the women dancing nearby gave me a sly look, shaking her hips with her arms above her head, and I permitted myself a long, slow perusal. This was no schoolgirl: confident, sensual, hair pulled back in a sleek updo, she had the look of an executive enjoying a wild night out. Just my type. I liked women who were smarter than me and who fucked like it was going out of style.

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